Wicked Business

  “Clara said I was useless, so she gave me the afternoon off. She said she didn’t want to hear any more about saving the world, but golly, it’s important. I mean, it’s the world. And you’ll never guess what I found out. Charles Duane was the rector of Old North Church, so let’s go.”

  “To Old North Church?”

  “I’m sure we’ll find more clues there,” Glo said. “My wizardry is finally kicking in. I wouldn’t be surprised if we get there and I have a vision. I might be able to point us right to the Luxuria Stone.”

  I put Cat in charge of guarding the hidden painting, and an hour later, we were at Old North Church in Boston’s North End. It’s a sturdy, blocky redbrick building with a bell tower that looks like it was built by Practical Pig. The sidewalk and courtyard surrounding the church are redbrick, and all the other buildings on Salem Street are also redbrick. There’s parking on one side of the street with enough space left for a single car to navigate the remaining blacktop patched road. Across the street from the church is an Italian café and a shop selling T-shirts to tourists.

  I’d walked the Freedom Trail a couple months ago and stopped in to see the church, so I knew something about it. Built in 1723. It’s an Episcopal church with services on Sunday. Other days, it’s open to the public as a national treasure with tours and a gift shop. The interior is white, with some dark wood trim and elaborate chandeliers hanging over the center aisle. Pews are set into boxes, and there’s also a second-floor balcony with a pipe organ.

  “I’ve never been in here,” Glo said, looking up at the chandeliers. “This is so historic.”

  We were the only tourists in the church. Glo was walking around, reading plaques. I sat in one of the pews and listened to the silence, imagining what it must have been like to worship here two hundred years ago. Someone was working on the balcony level. I could hear footsteps and an occasional clink.

  “The chandeliers and the bells were shipped here from England,” Glo said from the back of the church. “How cool is that?”

  A guy looked over the balcony railing at Glo. “Are you interested in the bells?”

  “Yes,” Glo said. “Can they still ring?”

  “We usually ring them for Sunday service. And we have weekly practice sessions.”

  “Wow,” Glo said. “I’d love to hear them.”

  “I’m one of the bellringers,” he said. “If you come back on Sunday, maybe we could go out for coffee after.”

  “Sure,” Glo said.

  “I have some questions about the bells,” I said to him.

  “Give me a minute to finish cleaning up, and I’ll be right down.”

  “How do you always manage to get a date?” I asked Glo. “You’re like a date magnet.”

  “I’m cute,” Glo said. “And I think it must be part of my wizard power. I think to myself, Boy, he’s hot. I’d like to go out with him, and next thing, I’ve got a date.”

  I didn’t know about the wizard power, but she was right about being cute. I was sort of cute in a girl-next-door kind of way that didn’t seem to encourage dates. Glo was cute in a quirky, fun way that was obviously more approachable. Truth is, I wish I was more like Glo, but I’d feel like an idiot if I tried to wear a pink ballet tutu with green-and-black striped tights and motorcycle boots.

  I heard a door close upstairs and the bellringer ambled over to us. He was around twenty. Still in his puppy stage, with long, gangly legs and big feet. Sandy blond hair that had probably been cut by a friend.

  “Josh Sidwell,” he said, extending his hand.

  “Lizzy Tucker,” I said, shaking his hand.

  Glo stuck her hand out and smiled. “Gloria Binkly, and I’ve never dated anyone named Josh before. I’m, like, a Josh virgin.”

  “Jeez,” Josh said. “I’m honored.”

  “How do you get to be a bellringer?” I asked him.

  “I’m a member of the MIT Guild of Bellringers.”

  “Wow, a college guy,” Glo said. “I’ll bet you’ve never even been arrested.”

  “I got caught smoking pot once, but I was underage, and I didn’t get charged with a felony.”

  “Even better,” Glo said.

  “So tell me about the bells,” I said to Josh.

  “There are eight of them. They were cast in Gloucester, England, in 1744, and they were hung here in Old North in 1745. They were restored in 1894 and again in 1975.”

  “Is it possible to play a song with them?”

  “I suppose it’s possible, but they’re not designed to play a song. These are tone bells. We have certain sequences that we play,” Josh said. “It’s a complicated process.”

  “This is confusing,” I said. “I was under the impression there were nine bells.”

  “Nope,” he said. “Right from day one, there were only eight. Maybe you’re thinking about the Duane bell. Charles Duane was a church rector. He was the first rector to have the bells refurbished. He also had a small replica bell made as well and asked that it be buried with him. Sometimes it’s referred to as the ninth bell.”

  “Where’s he buried?”

  “Here,” Josh said. “There are thirty-seven tombs and over eleven hundred bodies buried in the basement.”

  “That’s a lot of bodies to bury in your basement,” Glo said.

  “They give tours,” Josh said. “It’s awesome. Charles Duane has a plaque and everything. Not everybody has a plaque.”

  “Is it creepy down there?” Glo asked. “Are there ghosts?”

  “The tour I took didn’t see any ghosts. At least, I didn’t see any. And it wasn’t creepy, except it feels a little claustrophobic.”

  “Thanks,” I said to Josh. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Are you walking the Freedom Trail?”

  “No,” Glo said. “We’re saving mankind.”

  “Excellent,” Josh said. “See you Sunday.”

  “He was dreamy,” Glo said, when we got back to my car. “He could be the one I’ve been looking for. He spoke English and everything. I have a good feeling about him.”

  We left the North End and hit 1A at rush hour. Route 1A isn’t good at the best of times. Rush hour is excruciating. By the time I rolled into Marblehead, I was starving and my back was in spasm.

  “Remind me to never do that again,” I said to Glo.

  “If I could just get Broom to cooperate, we could fly,” Glo said. “Then we wouldn’t have to worry about traffic. Harry Potter didn’t have to worry about traffic.”

  “You realize Harry Potter isn’t real, right?”

  “Of course, but he could be. I mean, maybe not Harry Potter, but someone like him. Who’s to say?”

  Glo had parked on the street in front of my house, and I pulled in behind her.

  “You got your car fixed,” I said.

  “My neighbor fixed it for me. I went out with him once, but it didn’t work out.”

  “He was shot with a nail gun?”

  “No. He decided he was gay. He said it wasn’t my fault, but I’m not so sure.”

  We went into the house, and I pulled food out of the fridge. All bakery rejects. Ugly meat pies and stale cupcakes. Glo was halfway through a meat pie and a beer when the back door burst open, and Hatchet jumped into the kitchen, brandishing his sword.

  “Vile wenches,” he said. “Out of my way whilst I search this keep.”

  “What’s a keep?” Glo asked him.

  “You’ve blacked your windows,” Hatchet said to me. “You’re hiding something, and I want it.”

  “Dude,” Glo said. “You need to chill. Have a meat pie.”

  “I will not be dissuaded by your meat pie,” Hatchet said. “I want the clue.”

  “Here’s the thing,” Glo said. “You’re kind of cute. Like, you’ve got this medieval thing going for you, and it’s sort of a turn-on. I mean, I met this other guy today, and he might be the one, but then again it might be you, if you could just get over the bossy part of your personality.”


  Hatchet lowered his sword. “Thou thinkst I’m bossy?”

  “Maybe you’re just hungry,” Glo said. “Does Wulf feed you? Take a meat pie while I get my book. I was thinking about you last night, and I found a spell that might help.”

  Glo pulled Ripple’s Book of Spells out of her canvas messenger bag, set it on the counter, and paged through it.

  Hatchet looked at the meat pies. “Dost thou have a ham and cheese?”

  I gave him a paper towel and a ham meat pie. “You want a beer?”

  “Aye. A tankard of ale would be fine.”

  “How about a bottle?”

  “Whatever,” Hatchet said.

  “Here it is. I found it,” Glo said. “It’s a mid-level charm that improves self-esteem. You won’t feel subservient to Wulf after I put this charm on you.”

  “But it is my destiny to be subservient,” Hatchet said.

  “Piggle wiggle little weewee,” Glo read.

  “I doest not have a little weewee,” Hatchet said. “That is an untruth. An affront to my weewee.”

  Glo followed along with her finger. “Think large when anger calls, when thoughts are small, when doubt assails, let thy body bloat, release all foul within.” Glo reached into her messenger bag and took out a little plastic bag that held a small amount of black powder. She sprinkled the powder onto Hatchet and clapped her hands twice. “Powdered frickberry to seal the deal,” she said.

  Hatchet sneezed and farted. “Sorry,” he said. “I got frickberry up my nose.” And he farted again.

  “Are you sure you read that right?” I asked Glo. “It sounded more like a charm for intestinal problems than for self-esteem problems.”

  “I even followed with my finger,” Glo said.

  I looked at the charm she’d just read. “I think you might have inadvertently changed a word. You said bloat and you should have said float.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  Pbblt. Hatchet farted.

  “Maybe you should undo the charm,” I said to Glo. “Just say it the right way.”

  “It’s not that easy. I’ll have to find the bloat charm and then find the antidote. And that was the last of my frickberry powder. The charm won’t stick without frickberry.”

  Hatchet finished his ham meat pie. “I thank thee for the savory pie,” he said. Bbrrrp.

  “Jeez Louise,” Glo said. “You’re going to have to take it outside. My eyes are burning.”

  “Yeah, and I haven’t got any clues,” I told him. “I’m fresh out.”

  “I think thou doth fib,” Hatchet said, “but I will take my leave for now, as this evil wench hath cursed me with foul flatulence.”

  Hatchet swooshed out the door with sword in hand, I locked the door after him, and Glo lit a match.

  “He was cuter before he started farting,” she said.

  I ate a meat pie and popped a mini strawberry cupcake into my mouth. “I suppose we need to send Diesel into the crypt to check out the ninth bell.”

  “Maybe the Luxuria Stone is there, too. That would be so cool, because we wouldn’t have to worry about hell anymore. We could have a kegger to celebrate.”

  I helped myself to a second cupcake, and Carl scampered into the kitchen, followed by Diesel.

  “What’s up, little dude?” Glo said to Carl.

  “Eeh,” Carl said, and he gave her the finger.

  Diesel went straight to the refrigerator and got a beer. “That sums up my day, too.”

  I gave Carl a meat pie and pushed the rest of them over to Diesel. “Couldn’t find your bad guy?”

  “Eighty-six years old, and he’s making me look silly. And I don’t think he’s even trying. He’s so old, he’s not giving off any markers. I can’t track him. And he’s not following a pattern. I don’t think the guy sleeps. He just wanders around creating havoc.” He took a pie. “What have you been up to?”

  “We found the clue that leads to the Luxuria Stone,” Glo said. “And I met a really cute guy.”

  Diesel’s eyebrows rose ever so slightly, and he looked over at me.

  “It turns out Glo was able to see the hidden message in the painting.”

  “I’m special,” Glo said. “I have hope, and I’m going to find true love.”

  “The message also contained nine numbered bells. And there was a man’s name,” I told Diesel.

  “Charles Duane,” Glo said. “We Googled him and found out he was the rector of Old North Church a long time ago. So we went to the church, and I got a date with the bellringer, and we’re just inches from saving the world.”

  Diesel leaned against the counter and ate his pie. “I have a feeling there’s some stuff missing from the middle of that.”

  “There are eight bells in the bell tower of Old North,” I said. “The painting showed nine numbered bells, and we learned that Charles Duane asked to be buried with a small replica bell that’s sometimes referred to as the ninth bell.”

  “I bet there’s a secret message on the bell, just like on the painting,” Glo said. “Or even better, the Luxuria Stone might be stashed away with the bell and Charlie.”

  Diesel finished his pie and moved on to a chocolate cupcake. “The perfect ending to the perfect day . . . I get to go grave robbing. Could it get any better?”

  “The church is going to be locked,” I said. “It’ll have an alarm system. And last time, you didn’t have such great luck with the alarm. It might be better to go in during the day, when there’s no alarm. Glo and I can distract people away from the stairs that lead to the crypts.”

  “How am I going to get a bell out to the car?” Diesel asked.

  “Maybe it would fit in a backpack.”

  I couldn’t believe I was now plotting to steal the bell, when less than an hour ago, I’d almost run off the road in a blind panic over stealing the painting.

  “I like it,” Diesel said. “I’m comfortable with procrastination. And the Bruins are playing again tonight.”

  Diesel fills up a house. He’s surprisingly quiet, but his energy permeates every nook and cranny. The house feels masculine and safe, although truth is, he probably draws more danger than he scares away. I feel compelled to maintain my independence and shoo him back to his own apartment, but the disturbing reality is that I like having him here.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Thursdays are usually quiet at the bakery. It was one o’clock and the lunch rush was done rushing. I had the dishwasher loaded and baking trays stacked in the sink for scrubbing. Clara had just put the day’s last loaves of bread into the oven. Glo was alone in the shop, reading Ripple’s Books of Spells, trying to find something that would reverse the charm she put on Hatchet.

  We had the door to the kitchen open for air. It was sixty degrees out, with a brilliant blue sky and a hint of a breeze. I heard a car pull into the little back lot, two doors opened and closed, and Diesel ushered an old man into the work area.

  The man was about 5′10″ and bony. He had pure white hair, beady eagle eyes, and huge old man ears.

  “I don’t know why I’m getting dragged around like this,” he said. “You get to be an age where you should do what you want and not have someone telling you to do this and do that and don’t do this and don’t do that. You’re lucky I’m so easygoing, or I’d be complaining to somebody. I’ve got rights, you know. And I’m no slouch, either. I can do things. Did I ever tell you I could bend a spoon? Alls I have to do is think about it. How many people could do that one, eh? I could bend a fork, too, but a tire iron is a tough one. I gotta have a good night’s sleep before I could bend a tire iron.”

  “This is Mortimer Sandman,” Diesel said. “I’m hanging with him until his son comes to pick him up tonight.”

  “He’s babysitting me,” Mortimer said. “Won’t let me out of his sight. Like I’m decrepit or something. Thought he was going to offer to wipe my behind in the men’s room. Feed me my soup so I don’t dribble. How about if you chew my sandwich for me?”
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  “You tried to sneak away on me, twice,” Diesel said.

  “Yeah, I’m a real threat for a hotshot like you with all your superpowers. Did I ever tell you about the time I bent three spoons at once? It was at a party, and I just concentrated, and all of a sudden all the ladies’ spoons up and bent. You could hear them gasp. I didn’t say anything, because that’s our code. We don’t mention nothing about what we do. I was hot that night. I could have bent anything. Boy, those were the days. I could still bend stuff, but I gotta be careful on account of I got high blood pressure. I don’t want to bust a blood vessel over some spoon. It was better back in the day when they were real silver. Softer, more bendable, if you know what I mean. Everything’s stainless now. I could get a hernia trying to bend some of them stainless pieces.”

  “What’s the deal with him?” Glo asked Diesel.

  “He puts people to sleep, and then he steals stuff,” Diesel said.

  “So they should stay awake and guard their stuff if it’s so valuable,” Mortimer said. “How am I supposed to know they want it? You can’t even have a conversation with people today without them falling asleep. Sometimes they sleep with their eyes open. I don’t know why they don’t fall over. If it was me, I’d fall over, but I don’t have that problem. I stay awake. I pay attention. I’ve always been able to pay attention. You gotta concentrate to bend a spoon.” He looked over at Clara. “What about you? I bet you can’t bend a spoon.”

  Clara didn’t say anything. Her eyes were glassy and her mouth was slack.

  “Hey, girly,” Mortimer said to Clara. “I’m talking to you. Wake up.”

  Clara made an effort to focus. “Sorry, I think I dozed off there for a minute.”

  “How does he do it?” I asked Diesel. “Magic?”

  “Boredom,” Diesel said. “He just keeps talking, and eventually, your mind turns to the consistency of grits. He lives with his son in Newton, but he ran away from home three weeks ago.”

  “Why don’t you talk about me like I’m not even here,” Mortimer said. “What, do I look like I’m deaf? Do you know what it’s like to live with my son? It’s a mortuary. Why don’t I just shoot myself, or jump off a bridge, or drink rat poison. He never does anything. He watches television. What kind of life is that? I need action. I need some hot mamas.”